


Edge Of Winter

by solitariusvirtus



Series: Uncanny Westeros (Otherworlds) [37]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:20:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25595671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus
Summary: “I will go find him.” It had become only too clear to him that staying would achieve naught. While he could not be glad for old Aemon’s misfortunes, they did offer him the perfect escape.“Do not.” In spite of her way of putting it, Rhaegar knew it to be a plea rather than an order. “You are needed here. You cannot help Aemon in any event. The Westrons are a savage folk; they are just as like to have eaten him as they are to have given hospitality. This Lord Arryn is not known to me. How could we trust a word he says? Why should we?”AU! Wherein dragonlords of fallen empires and wolf maidens of burgeoning kingdoms are hammered together by dint of common cause and natural inclination.Or Rhaegar Targaryen comes to learn a higher calling is a man's choice and it is destiny that bends.
Relationships: Lyanna Stark/Rhaegar Targaryen
Series: Uncanny Westeros (Otherworlds) [37]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/336412
Comments: 12
Kudos: 26





	1. Chapter 1

“You are not enjoying the feast." Chaeron noted, the softness of his voice almost lost in the tumult of the hall. If only he’d been standing a little ways away. Rhaegar gave the man a hollow stare. It would take him some time before he could enjoy any manner of din. “There is much to celebrate.” The man threw his arm about his shoulder, tugging him towards one of the long tables. “The war is over.”

“For how long?” he questioned, more to himself than to the other. “Until Jaenor gets it into his head to challenge your brother over some imagined offence, or Baela thinks she has just as much to rule her own city.” He snorted and grabbed a cup, pouring himself wine. Raising the goblet, he toasted Chaeron, “To your health; may you live long enough to win Gaerys’ battles.”

“We’ve always divided these things between us; the younger son gets the battlefield and the elder the glory.” Chaeron grabbed his own wine, lifting the goblet in response. “But this can’t be about that old arrangement.” They moved through the throng until they’d reached the wide balcony. A strong gust of wind pushed futilely against their advancing forms. But it hadn’t the strength to stop them. Then, once they were safely away from prying eyes, Chaeron pressed for his answer. “What is it?”

“I am returning to Lys.” There, he’d said it. “Gaerys has enough men to hold the city even without a dragon. I shan’t involve myself any further. Maervys won’t retaliate as long as Laenor holds fast to the peace, which he will, especially now that he’d lost his beast.”

“Politics did not use to trouble you.” There was something like regret in those words. “I shall let my brother know; you needn’t think on the matter any further.” It was going to be a bloodbath. Gaerys would not relent, for he meant to cut Laenor. Rhaegar had no plan of making an enemy out of Maervys and his creature. Too many of their dragons had fallen to these ridiculous squabbles.

“You should go home as well,” Rhaegar said, downing the contents of his cup. “There is naught here.”

“There is always another war.” That was his choice to make. Shrugging, Rhaegar put it from his mind. “Will you be going home then, once you’ve returned to Lys? Nay; don’t answer that, your expression is well enough to satisfy my curiosity. You couldn’t have helped her; you know that.”

“She was a reckless fool, but she was my sister.” He eyed the stars strewn across the dark veil of the night.

“You need a woman.” A hard slap to the back accompanied the words. “And I’ve a mind to aid you this once.” In spite of Rhaegar’s half-hearted protests, for while he might enjoy the company, he had no taste for taking anyone to his bed that night, Chaeron dragged him away from the revelry. “You’d be surprised at how pretty these Norvosi women can be when they try.” Led to the private chambers, he was unsurprised to find half a score of women already waiting. They were all of them clad in Norvosi fashion, their heads adorned with wigs, for the benefit of their patrons, one might suppose.

“Never let it be said you are not a creature of discerning taste,” Rhaegar said, eyeing a petite blonde appreciatively. In truth, only her height was small. The rest of her was quite the opposite. The Norvosi shaved their bodies until not a hair was to be seen.

“Take whichever you want; I daresay everyone is well on the way to being drunk and we may just as well retreat now,” Chaeron commented, approaching a tall, lean silver-haired woman. He grasped her by the hips and tugged, bringing her flush against him. “You’ll do,” he said. Then he half turned to Rhaegar, “Found anything.”

He held his hand out to the tiny blonde and she reached back, her soft fingers curling around him in a gentle hold. Mentime Chaeron had decided to expand upon his choice. Knowing the man he’d have had all five of them before dawn. But that was none of his affair. Thus he left, his choice in tow, grunting in amusement when his friend asked if he’d be satisfied with just the one.

His bedchamber embraced the two of them. She turned towards him as soon as the door had closed in their wake and reached for the silken straps of her garment, baring her upper half to his gaze. “If it please my lord,” she said, her voice low and slightly rough, as though she’d only recently managed to soothe a persistent cough. Gently, she took hold of his hand, the one not sporting bandages, and brought it to her heavy breast. In spite of his exhaustion, he felt himself respond to her warmth. Her own hand pressed upon his own. She reached for his belt with her free hand, tugging on it.

They moved to the bed slowly. The stirrings of desire, however, moved no further than the tiny embers ignited. She did her best, it had to be said. “Is there anything I can do?” she questioned after it became apparent he would not be stirred. The woman’s painted lips parted gently. He thought a moment, but shook his head and tugged her with him until she was lying alongside him. Without a word, she sneaked her hand into the front of his tunic and stroked.

“Is the wig uncomfortable?” She paused at the question, then admitted to the fact with a small chagrined smile. “You may take it off.” She seemed to appreciate that for after she had removed it her caresses turned even tenderer. Tucking her shaved head under his chin, Rhaegar closed his eyes. Sleep came soon enough. 

He woke once in the night, to the warm of the pillow girl in his bed. Without much thought, he turned into her, more for warmth than pleasure and slept once more, until came the dawn and a new day with it. She was still there when he woke, sleeping. At his movement, her eyes opened. She rubbed the sleep away and smiled at him in a friendly manner. Her eyes roamed his form. He was easily enough satisfied thereafter.

By the time she’d tidied herself up and left his chamber it was late in the morning. He would have to hurry elsewise his men, noting his absence, might well decide ‘twas time to drag him to the road. He made his way without, not particularly taken aback to note Gaerys and Chaeron had already awoken. Heavy drinking was a vice he had not exercised in some time.

“There he is,” Gaerys spoke, having noticed him. “I hear you are leaving us.” From behind him, Chaeron shook his head, a slight smile curving his lips.

“You’ve good hearing.” A low whistle was enough for his dragon to come down from the height. “The war is won. Peace flourishes. I’ve duties to attend to.” He kept the challenge from his voice to the best of his abilities. But Gaerys had a way about him. Truly, it was enough for the man to open his mouth and Rhaegar’s stomach soured faster than milk left out in the heat.

For a moment the man looked as though he might protest. But then Rhaegar was the one with the dragon and that afforded his some leeway. “Godsspeed; I daresay there is much awaiting you back home.” 

Biting the inside of his cheek against the sharp retort he wished to deliver, Rhaegar gave the man a nod. He mounted his dragon with nary a word and taking one last glance at Chaeron, he inclined his head in gratitude. His friend offered a bland smile. There was naught left to do but take off.

His men, already in their saddles, moved at a sign. If the weather remained fair, they would not take too long, but then one never knew what the sea had up her sleeve, for she was a mistress of tricks and doubly so when came winter. He thought with some satisfaction, though, that his kin should be glad to see him once more. It had been undoubtedly wrong of him to leave with scant warning when their grief had been greatest.

War had never pleased him. But when one fought, one hadn’t time to dwell on tiny bodies disintegrating under the effect of flames. He would not have Shaena to return to, that was true, and he expected his mother, at least, would have some words to say upon the matter. But he was ready to return, come what may.

A playful gale tugged upon his tresses. He closed his eyes against the heat of the day and leaned his head back. “I think we can go faster than this, Taenys.” Wide wings stirred the air around them, great muscles tensing beneath him as the dragon soared heavenwards. Rhaegar stroked the scales on Taenys’ neck before grabbing fast hold of the pommel. He glanced briefly below at the mounted men. The captain of the company had matters well in hand. Not that one had much to fret over. They’d not sustained wound heavier than a few scratches. A good thing that was too, elsewise he might have had to postpone his return.

As journeys went, he found naught to complain of. The men made good time. Taenys had plenty of game to keep hunger at bay. The roads were clear. Even the weather was amenable. Another man might have found the circumstances ideal, relaxing into the bargain. Not Rhaegar, however. He followed along the banks of Noyne, his stomach churning unpleasantly for not other reason than knowing what awaited him beyond his sire’s pleasure at his return and his mother’s warm embraces. A snort left his lips. Taenys, ever attuned to his moods, gave a mighty shudder before a roar left his wide open maw.

When the day drew into evening, he allowed the dragon to find ground and rest or hunt, whatever it preferred. Approaching the men, Rhaegar sat upon a wide boulder as they made camp. A great roaring fire sat in their midst, the soldiers sitting closer or further away in accord with their own preference. “Areo,” he called to the captain, motioning him over, “I will take first watch.”

“You are certain your head is good for that?” grunted the man, seating himself upon the tall, sun-warmed grass. They overlooked the camp together. “It did not look like the nahsa agreed with you. It still does not look it.”

“I’ll say this of Norvos, their women are far more agreeable than their drink.” Fermented goat’s milk would not figure among his favoured libations in any event. “But the Norvosi men have damned strong stomachs either way, that’s for certain.” He reached for the wineskin at his hip and pulled it up, drawing out the cork with his teeth. Rhaegar drank deep to wash the memory of fermented milk from his mouth as Areo chuckled heartily.

“Did I ever tell you I’ve an aunt from Norvos?” Rhaegar shook his head. “She’s married to my father’s eldest brother. Quite old now too; not that it makes a lick of difference to me. She was old when she wedded.” Handing him the wineskin, Rhaegar asked how that had come about. “It was during the time of the old Prince, when Pentos warred with Norvos. My uncle thought to win some coin as a hired sword. Found my aunt weeping over her dead husband, so he protected her and took her back with him to Lys.” Areo drank as well. “Naturally, all her widow’s portion joined them as well.”

“Man’s got to live,” Rhaegar allowed, reaching for the wine. “And have they a happy marriage?”

Areo shrugged. “Who’s to say? He’s not thrown her over yet.”

“Wedded bliss, in other words,” opined Rhaegar, somewhat amused at the manner in which his captain had put matters. “Not much else a man could ask for.”

Soft murmurs of conversation floated in the air. The bronze glow of the dipping sun spilled its spindly limbs across the grasslands. Laced with gold and rose thread, the clouds drifted by, slowly sailing across the vast expanse above. The vivid colours twined and broke apart, crashing together before spiralling in opposing directions, fragments scattered about with no particular pattern to follow. The scent of wood, dust and grass mingled pleasantly. It would be a warm night, as the day had been, only too pleasant to burrow one’s way in the tall grass and drift off to sleep.

When his watch was over, that was. There was time yet. Dried meats were taken out, along with fruits and cheese and whatever else the men had thought to bring away in their journey home. They shared the rations among themselves. The offerings made the rounds and they sated their hunger. The darkness was slow to fall, prevailing upon the golden skies after a great deal of effort. Intrepid crickets mourned the demise of light with their songs and the hooting of owls followed as soon as only the moon reigned in the heavens above, its silvery strokes dancing about.

Taerys returned halfway into his watch, curling his massive frame at the edge of camp. Though he did not sleep, he nevertheless remained in patient contemplation of the flames, eyes alight with the whispered glow. He found himself wondering at times what it was the creature thought of. What he wouldn’t give to know, Rhaegar considered, leaving his seat upon the stone. He looked about, chancing upon a broken bit of wood. He picked it up and pulled out his dagger, intent of whiling away the hours yet remaining.

He hadn’t a particular piece in mind when he began carving, he never did. Somehow, though, the bark and flesh beneath gave way under the edge of his blade. Since it was more stick than block of wood, he managed a rather well-turned eel. For a moment, Rhaegar contemplated putting the piece away in his saddlebag. But it was a fragile thing; undoubtedly it would break against his other possessions and then it would be completely useless. In any event, there was more than enough material in his sire’s home to carve a thousand eels. He had no need of it, either. Neither Rhaenys, nor Aegon did either. It would rot away, unused. Best to let it feed the flames.

Standing to his feet, Rhaegar made his way through the sleeping men, throwing his offering into the fire. The creature blackened and curled, twisting into itself until there was naught left. There, it had found its use. It took him a moment to convince his legs to lead him back. His watch passed by soon enough and he found himself joining Taerys. The dragon shielded him beneath his wing, at long last closing his eyes. It almost seemed a lifetime ago when their position had been reversed and he’d been the one shielding the beast.

He slept well, familiar with the feel of scales against his palm and cheek, inured to the rumble, almost purr-like, of every breath the dragon took. In some ways, he was more comfortable there than he’d ever been anywhere else. But the new day broke and with it came the need for movement. In orderly fashion, his men set to their various tasks, their cheer of a good enough bent to lift his own mood, though he much preferred evenings to mornings. Saddling Taerys with care, Rhaegar bit back a yawn. He mounted urging Taenys to greater efforts as they took to the skies. The yet grey dawn-light teased the corners darkness had slunk into, pushing and prodding gaily away. Cool air, carrying just a hint of moistness, swept under Taenys’ wings and over Rhaegar. He stretched in his seat, rubbing a hand to the back of his neck, mind idle for the time being.

Journeying had ever proved to keep his thoughts occupied with scenery and such, even though some might wonder what one flock of sheep had to differ with from another. They were indeed rather similar, Rhaegar would answer if he were asked, but they were not the same and that was quite enough. The same went for grassy fields and well-worn paths. In the olden days, bygone ages remembered in song, the roads beneath him would have seen more than their fare share of trade and travel. As matters stood, merchants were ever shy, knowing the dangers in passing from one territory to another lest they’ve some assurance of safety. Thievery had bloomed and flourished since the split of the once great Valyria. Every city thought itself entitled to more and more and even more if it could be had. Rhaegar shuddered to think what should’ve become of the land if the dragonlords had insisted to fight to the last. Alas, sanity prevailed and treaties were signed.

Those of them that managed to keep their beasts and hatch new ones from time to time, although the sight grew rarer and rarer, guarded their creatures fiercely, partaking in conflicts only when necessary. He half wondered what if might have been like to live among the heroes of old, when great deeds were still in the making. He should have liked to match himself against the likes of his ancestors. ‘Twas not to be; he’d been born in a fallen age and had come to accept that he would never do more than ward off the greed of some foe or another. But then the gods had their reasons, he told himself, pushing the faint dissatisfaction away. It was not for him to question them anymore than it was for a servant to plague their master with queries. The low whistle of a flute rose from below and a gentle hum came his men. Securing the pommel of Taenys’ saddle in his hand, Rhaegar snorted at their choice of song. They were happy men though; he could not begrudge them that.

* * *

A small strip of land covered by fine pale gold sands provided a perfect spot for aimless wandering. Foamy blue-green waves lapped at the shore, the song of the sea serving as backdrop to the laborious days of the sparse populous. Their nearness to the Perfumed Sister provided all the excitement these souls would ever need and the dragonlords settled there long since kept the peace. Rhaegar brought Taenys to hover over the quiet expanse of land and jumped down from the beast’s back. Several unfastened buckles later, he was holding onto the saddle as his dragon proceeded to roll about in the sand, presumably enjoying the warmth of the sun-heated ground.

A small snort left him at such obvious pleasure the creature took and he turned away, moving to a jutting rise of rock. From where he stood, it could not be made out, for the wall of stone, carved and lines by the ages past by Rhaegar knew not what hid the expanse above, with its rich vegetation, small white houses dotting the landscape and over abundance of sheep. Dragons loved sheep; more precisely dragons loved eating sheep. It was a most fortunate thing the island was not peopled by fools and as such, most yards could boast at the very least a pair of those wooly delicacies. It kept Taenys from robbing the good folk of their brats just as well as it had the dragons of the past, which was all as well for he had no desire to see tiny bones before his eyes in any greater number than he thus far had.

Salt-water sprayed across the Taneys who seeing himself thus assaulted circled his way closer to him, Rhaegar tsked at the beast, half certain he was trying to rope him into some game of another. One might not expect it of dragons, but those yet young had a fondness for larking about and much as one disciplined them there was still the obstinate nature they fell back on whenever they so desired. “What would you have me do, you lug?” he asked when a great jaw dropped into his lap. Taenys nuzzled his snout against him with the gorce of a hurricane and all the grace of a stampeding heard of auroch. “You’re a great lump of scales with enough strength to crush me. If you think I’ll consider baiting you into a match, you’ve another thing coming.”

In spite of his words, however, he soon found his arms wound around his companion’s throat as they tussled, one of them putting quite a lot of effort into the tugging and pushing, the other being a gigantic lizard of overgrown proportions and inadequately developed sense. Nevertheless, Taenys kind enough to treat him with no rougher a touch than he might reserve for a hatchling. Or might be a yearling at most, Rhaegar amended, as a mace-like tail sent him onto his back with a clear view of the blue skies above, knocking the breath clean out of his lungs.

It was then that he heard a shriek. He raised his head to the best of his abilities, still winded, in time to catch sight of his mother, skirts held high, tearing across the distance. Her veil trailed as a banner behind her, the gold thread of the embroidery glinting in the sun. “Rhaegar!” she cried out once more, falling to her knees by him, slender arms wrapping around him in a tight hold. “Are you trying to send your mother into an early grave?” She drew back, her grave expression stark against the beauty of such a day. “What were you thinking? He could’ve crushed you.”

“Taenys was just playing, mother,” he responded, all mirth bleeding away. The woman’s lips curved downwards. “It was a silly game, is all.” All the same, she burst into tears, the thin blue paint lining her eyes running down her cheeks most unbecomingly. Rhaegar put an arm about her shoulders into a loose embrace, pulling her into his side. Taenys had the good sense to stretch himself out, head on his paws, watching the scene intently. His mother sobbed, great gusty heaves punctuating the rise and fall of her shoulders. “There now, all is well. No harm done.”

Rhaella sniffed softly, her hand coming up to wide the wetness from her cheeks. Along with the moisture, she removed the faint blue traces left behind by her paints. She looked from him to Taenys, hand falling to her chest, cupping gently at the space over her heart. “You shan’t endanger yourself any longer. Taneys may play on his own.” And she said it in such a steely motherly way he couldn’t help but huff incredulously. “Promise me, Rhaegar.”

“I shan’t endanger myself,” he repeated obediently. And he would not; at least not willingly. Although if life had taught him anything was that most danger grabbed at one unexpectedly. He aided his mother with restoring her pale pristine looks, sighing gently as her gaze settled upon him.

“I cannot, Rhaegar; I cannot. No more danger.” Her voice broke over the last words. For one brief moment he thought she might start weeping once more, but she drew her shoulder back and shook her head. “I am glad you are home,” she said after, her hands rising to cup his face. The soft scent of her perfume spilled in waves towards him as she rose over his form to press a kiss to his forehead. “You were missed.”

“It is good to be home.” He could almost convince himself he meant the words. “We ought to get up.” She nodded, leaning back and away from him into a sitting position but made no move otherwise. Smoothing a hand over the folds of her skirt, she dropped her gaze to the silk. Rhaegar waited for her to speak once more. Or might be ‘twas simply that he waited for her to rise. She did none of that, but instead shifted until her legs were folded beneath.

“Your father is with Shaena and the children,” she spoke after what seemed an interminable pause. Rhaegar grunted an acknowledgement. “Will you come see them?” He did not want to; truly he did not. But what could he say? That we refused to do so on account of his own ire? That would not wash. Thus Rhaegar nodded and was only somewhat struck by the relief washing over his mother’s features. “Thanked be the gods,” she murmured, her tone carrying in spite of the quietness of her remark. It was she who climbed to her feet first and held her hand out in invitation.

He grasp her hand and pulled himself up. He brushed the sand clinging to him and whistled to Taenys. “Go home, boy. Go sleep.” They would take the beach and then make the climb to the plateau above. The dragon has a nest of his own and would benefit from some time to settle. While he travelled well, it did take him a little while to grow accustomed to his surroundings; the truth of it was Taenys had not an adventurous bone in his body and would have happily stayed on their little island forever were Rhaegar so inclined. A good thing he was not.

Allowing his mother to lean against him, Rhaegar led the both of the slowly towards the great stoats carved into stone. He thought they might continue on in silence, which would have given him some time to steel himself against the unpleasantness of it all, but Rhaella Targaryen had other ideas and did not shy from telling him precisely what was on her mind. “It is almost as though you were a child again, bent on causing us worry. I sometimes curse the day your Taenys hatched. And then I bless it, for eve when you are not within sight, you are well protected. I know he guards you well. If only your sister–” she stopped short of finishing that thought. “It was not to be.”

Clenching his teeth and setting his jaw against the wrath bubbling beneath the surface, Rhaegar struggled with deep breaths. The scent of the sea carried upon a warm breeze tailed them. His mother went on after a moment. “Lys the Lovely has come alive with feasts and revelry. Did you know the Rogares and the Ormollens have finally settled their differences? It seems there is to be a wedding.”

“High time Treg took a bride,” he commented softly, thinking of the man.”Which one of Rogare’s daughters does he wed?” He knew the eldest was past the first blush of youth and a widow. She had returned to her father’s house with something of a cloud attached to her name, for her husband had sent her back to her sire, after which he’d promptly died. The second daughter was a comely girl, if somewhat recalcitrant. She’d sworn never to wed and Rhaegar rather thought her wise; her lover, Doreea of someplace or another, was said to be wicked with a blade. The third girl was somewhat shy and did not venture beyond her father’s home overmuch. The second to last child was sweet and simple, she would not be much of a wife, but that might suit Tregar. The youngest was the one he knew the most about.

“Lucaerya,” Rhaella answered. That was quite the worst option, but then it made no matter to him. Still, his expression was well-matched by his mother’s. The woman smiled, “I see I am not the only one experiencing some wonder at the turn of events.”

“She must be breeding.” A wonder it had not happened long before. Rhaella shrugged. “I have the right of it then; poor Treg, I did warn him.” Lucaerya was free with her charms and that made her quite well-loved, by a certain set. Whether her father knew of her predilections need not make an object of speculation.

“Will you go to him? He might need your wisdom.” He thought about it for a moment. He’d wedded Shaena young and that marriage had been at the behest of his sire; in fact, Rhaegar had known she would be his wife from the moment she came into the world. If he’d not been enthusiastic as a husband than he had, at least, been dutiful. Shaena had been a cherished wife not only because she was his sister and the mother of his children, but because she had been a faithful, gods-fearing girl who had done her duty in equal measure by him and he had by her.

“I am hardly suited to the task.” And beyond that, he would not dare. “What will I tell him, that he should offer for Nora? He’s no fool; if he weds Aerya he does so because he had no choice.” Which rather meant, Rhaegar thought, that he had given in to her charms and for some reason Lucaerya had chosen that moment to be persuaded of the wisdom of marriage. “They’ll be well-matched in any event.”

“He has a merchant’s morals and she a whore’s heart; at least he should be able to buy her time for a short while.” The odd thing was, Rhaegar had been certain by the way Tregar mooned over Daenora that he meant to have her. More fool him.”So you believe they would deal well together, do you?”

“Well enough if he can keep her from climbing into other men’s beds.” If he proved equal to the task, he might even find some joy by her. The gods only knew with such matters. Waving a hand dismissively, Raegar frowned at the steps beneath his feet. “I see the edges are almost gone now.” They would have to think of some way to make the climb safer. Might be have another set of stairs carve, or put in use some mechanism capable of listing the weight of a few bodies. He had to look into the matter sooner rather than later. He wouldn’t wish for his mother to fall and break her neck, after all, on one of her evening rambles.

His sire they found precisely where his mother indicated he would be. Aerys Targaryen sat upon a bench, three urns at his feet. The greatest of the three had been opened, presumably so that the thin silver chain resting within with the ashes might be taken out. “Son,” his father greeted him, standing. “None the worse for wear, I see.” It was as much of a greeting as h was going to get out of the man. Rhaegar approached, clasping a hand to his father’s shoulder before he allowed the man to grasp him into a shallow embrace. He pulled away as soon as he could, his stomach clenching with unease as his eyes found the smaller urns.

“Have you been sitting here long, father?” he questioned, keeping his voice low. He could see the wooden figurines a small distance away and the wood shavings onto the ground, indicating that the man had been whittling once more. Walking around him, Rhaegar sat upon the bench, picking up the nearest of the works. He held it up, smiling softly at the tiny dragon. “Working in the dark is not good for your eyes,” Rhaegar pointed out nevertheless. He put the figurine away and glanced at his father.

Silence ensued as father and son took the measure of each other. He supposed things had changed and it made some sense to be somewhat taken aback by the sight before him. His father had never been a corpulent man, yet the gauntness of his face was new. “I will leave you to your talk,” Rhaella spoke, breaking the tension. Rhaegar looked to her, attempting to learn aught of his father’s state, but his mother merely pressed her lips to her husband’s cheek and pressed then his hand into hers before she took her leave of them both. He did not look a well man and for his part, Rhaegar was unsure what he ought to do. Other than stare, that was. He almost wished he’d stood by Gaerys and his demands.

“How did you find Norvos?” The question, spoken in a bland toe, should not have put him on edge. Even so, he frowned at his father’s words. “A great deal more interesting than our dusty little rock by the length of your stay.” Was it his imagination, or did his sire think to chide him. “A lot has happened in your absence.”

“There was a war. Chaeron begged for my aid and I gave him it.” He spoke the words sharply, almost as though cracking a whip. Regret crept in at the look Aerys gave him, but Rhaegar quashed it. “It had been long-planned. You all knew I was leaving,” he pointed out defensively, wondering if it would not be better to make his way without and back down to the beach. At least there he would face no recriminations. By the stubborn set of his sire’s jaw, however, he rather thought he had a tad more to endure. Aerys did not disappoint.

“You ran away, you know that; just as you ran away when Daeron died.” Eyes much like his own grew luminous with unshed tears. Small urns were the most difficult to speak of, he well knew. “I would not say a thing were it duty; you know well enough that was not it.”

“What do you want me to say?” Rhaegar demanded irritably. He looked at the urn housing Shaena’s ashes. Then his eyes fell upon Rhaenys’ remains and then Aegon’s. His throat tightened. “I offer no apology for keeping my word to Chaeron when it was freely given.”

“Areo and the men would have been aid enough,” Aerys maintained, his gaze holding his own. “She was sick with grief as well. But Shaena had no battlefield to turn to and no great conflict to take her mind off of her loss.” As though Rhaegar had been easy and joyful. Scowling, he crossed his arms over his chest, waiting for further reproach. “You might have at least written to her. She wanted you to tell her ‘twas not her fault; died with that wish on her lips.”

“I do not blame her. I never did.” But that did not make facing her any easier. It had been an accident, her taking that little tumble. She’d certainly not meant to drop her weight upon her child. But it had happened; she had fallen and she had broken their babe. Their son was dead. By her hand.

“Might be you think you don’t,” the other allowed. “Might be you even tell yourself you do not. But I think you do. And she knew it as well. At times the most horrible things will happen in one’s life; I’ve been on this earth long enough to know that. You both lost.”

“Well I did not dash my son’s head upon the ground and flatten him under my weight.” The words were out before he might stop them. Something like pain flashed upon his father’s face and Rhaegar heard a loud whimper. With some consternation he realised that had been him. A choked cry of frustration, might be, or mere ache. Closing his eyes against the feeling, he scrubbed his hands over his face. “I know she did not mean to; I know it was a horrible mistake. What good would I have done her when I couldn’t even bear to set eyes on her? I needed time. She needed time.” He’d not wanted her dead. But from half a world away, what could he have done when she caught the ague. He’d certainly not told her to swim in the sea until she grew sick. 

“I’ve buried more children than any parent ought to,” his sire said at long last. “I understand why you left; I do. But you should speak to her. Tell her now all there is to say between you.” And with that, he was abandoned to the urns and the ashes and a silver chain wrapped about a small wooden cat.

The shadows pressed in, their weight oppressive. He looked to Shaena’s resting place and licked his lips, the word stuck in his throat in spite of the solitude and the chance to rail against her. In the end, he did speak. “How dare you? You were not supposed to die, damned girl. And done in by an ague too. Have you no sense of shame, whatsoever? You went to sleep and ever woke up.” He recalled her not as she had been, a willowy, soft creature with dainty smiles and bright eyes, but as he’d last seen her with Aegon, cradling the shattered mite in her arms, the bloodstained swaddling-cloth bright red against her garments. She’d been begging him to help her, to do something.

There wasn’t much a man could do, he’d thought then, the shock numbing him to the meaning of the scene. He’d approached cautiously, the glint in her eyes more than enough to put him on edge. He’d peered at the quashed form of the babe, jaw falling lax as the facts slowly settled in. In a panic, he’d grabbed at Shaena’s shoulder, his grip strong enough to make her cry out. He could not recall his precise words, but the next he knew his sister was rattling off about having fallen and taking the child with her. And could he not see they needed help? He could see that. He could also see there would be no aid whatsoever that would satisfy anyone. 

Rhaegar knew he could not stay after he’d fed his son to the flames. He’d watched the flesh blacken and curl, falling off his bones and diminishing into nothingness, and he would have rather flung himself off the side of the cliffs rather than spend one more day with his sister weeping by him. Thus he had left, taking off on Taenys, with his men and heading off to war. There he might spill blood to his heart’s content and if it so happened that his imagination ran wild, no one need know. Had he remained, would he have flayed Shaena with his ire? Considering the question, he realised more and more that he would have. A horrified gasp left his lips and the blackness of his heart spilled forth wave after wave.

But she had punished herself anyway, hadn’t she? He needn’t have bothered even if he had been present. So why was it that knowing all he knew, his heart was still not willing to let go of the hated-edged pain? “I am so sorry.” The whisper, loud, terrible, bounced against the walls. “I cannot forgive. Not yet. I am so very sorry.” It was too raw, the ache, for him to draw back and seal the wound. “Just let me have this for now.” Untangling the silver chain from around the cat, he replaced it in Shaena’s urn, setting the lid upon it. He followed by giving Rhaenys the cat and Aegon the dragon. He hoisted the three of them upon their shelf, taking only one last look before he hurried away. 

Once without he made for his own chamber, not thinking to wonder at the relative silence of the place. His only concern was for his parched throat. Only that his chamber was not quite as abandoned as he had hoped. No sooner had he entered that he saw his younger brother, and only living sibling yet kept by the gods, perched upon the small sill of lancet. “So you truly have returned?” He didn’t know what he had been expecting of Viserys, but the sharp tone was certainly not it. The young boy scowled darkly, jumping down from his perch. “You did not need to. We were doing just fine.” Not knowing what to say, Rhaegar kept silent, staring warily at the boy. That only seemed to rile him further. “A bit late for returning, but I suppose that is better than naught.” With a flick of the wrist, he threw aught at his feet. “Uncle Aemon wrote; might be you will be kind enough to aid him, if you did not bestir yourself for our sister.”

“Viserys Targaryen, apologise to your brother this very instant!” His mother brushed past him into the chamber, grabbing hold of her youngest child, swatting her hand against the back of his head. “How dare you say such words?” she demanded heatedly.

“How dare I?” hissed the boy, clearly incredulous. “How dare he? My sister deserved better.” His mother’s next blow landed upon the boy’s cheek. Viserys yelped and jumped back, tugging so hard he escaped her clutches and sped off, heedless of her call. Rhaegar left him to it, bending to pick the folded parchment. He unfolded it and read the first few lines.

“I will go bring him back and you shall have an apology,” Rhaella began, but stopped short when he raised his had gently. She glanced guiltily to the letter. “It came during her last days and we did not think it of too great import. By the time I recalled receiving it and finally sat to read, there was very little to be done. Certainly not from here.”

“I will go find him.” It had become only too clear to him that staying would achieve naught. While he could not be glad for old Aemon’s misfortunes, they did offer him the perfect escape.

“Do not.” In spite of her way of putting it, Rhaegar knew it to be a plea rather than an order. “You are needed here. You cannot help Aemon in any event. The Westrons are a savage folk; they are just as like to have eaten him as they are to have given hospitality. This Lord Arryn is not known to me. How could we trust a word he says? Why should we?”

“I am going.” She blanched at his words and reached for his hand. Her warm fingers brushed his own. “You do not want me here. I do not want to be here. Let this be the end of it.”

“How can you say that to me?” she bridled. But how could he not when it was the truth?


	2. Chapter 2

A mouthful of blood was quite offensive to one’s senses. Lyanna was coming to find that the taste made her stomach turn. Alas, she could feel the warm liquid stealing down her throat even as she coughed desperately, trying with every aching bone in her body to roll onto her side so she might spit the distasteful remnants of her disgrace out. That was not to be, however. A pitiful garbled sound left her as sore flesh vibrated with pain. In spite of that, she steeled herself against the tremendous discomfort, eyes narrowing at the fat clouds abovehead. One guttural cry later, she was looking at a thin layer of hoar dusting once proud greenery. She coughed, burgundy droplets breaking the once spotless blanket. But speckled snow was the least of her troubles. She took a few moments to empty her mouth and breathe before struggling onto her hands and knees.

Why had she not allowed Benjen to come with her? Chiding herself for all manner of fool, Lyanna crawled her way to a sturdy tree, embracing its wieldy form. She leaned her weight against the rough bark and, ever so slowly, cajoled her legs into holding her up. Pain knifed along every available limb, which were thankfully all four of them. Gently rising her hand to her mouth, she poked her tongue out, feeling along the tissue with care. There did not seem to be any chunks missing. She must have bitten the inside of her cheek then. It was difficult to tell when every single minute part of her being throbbed with pain. 

Glancing about, there was neither hide, nor hair of her beast, which likely meant the creature had begun making her way home. The gods knew she and Brandon had spent enough time with the horses to make certain they knew that at least. A shaky breath spilled past her lips and she felt tears gather in her eyes. The blurring of her sight confirmed her fears. Before she might stop herself from it, she began weeping. At least Fleet would make it to the keep and they’d know to send riders after her. She feared if she tried to step away from the stalwart support of the tree she would simply fall face-first into the ground and not be able to produce such effort as to find another tree to rest against. Might be in time, her mind whispered. But ‘twas time she did not have.

If Lyanna was reading the signs right and she rather fancied that, after a lifetime in the North, she was, then a storm brewed. Good gods, she hoped Fleet did not stop to admire the scenery on the way. Her weak knees gave way and she lowered herself to a sitting position. The most she could do, Lyanna surmised, was feel for injuries and hope someone took notice of her absence. She wiped furiously at her tears and once satisfied with the result of her work moved on to assessing the damage the tumble had produced.

It was her back that troubled her. Low along her spine pulsed a knotted point of agony, radiating unpleasantness along her lower and upper halves. Reaching around, she pressed shaky fingers to the spot and yelped. “Wonderful,” Lyanna muttered, realising that she hadn’t the faintest how she might have climbed back into her saddle had Fleet not hied herself off. Grimacing, she settled her gaze upon a small boulder a short distance away. At least she’d not ended up smacking her head into that. A bite would have been the least of her worries then. As it was she would have to live with the knowledge of her utter stupidity and repent at leisure.

It was the province of fools and drunkards to lose their seat once mounted; to think she had followed suit after her many years in a saddle, not the least of which at her sire’s side, was mortifying. It poked at her insides in a way no pain could. Had anyone told her she would suffer such fate upon breaking her fast earlier in the day she would have laughed in their face, stolen the last remaining oatcake and proceeded to devour her food at great speed. One learned, with several brothers who visited home quite often, that there was no greater victory than a bountiful meal. Mother often said she did not know how she would have survived had Lyanna herself been born a so as well. But no matter her good meal, she still found herself in quite the quandary, wishing for the first time in a while that mother would not be quite so soft and leave her to her own devices so often.

But then, she considered, drawing her hand from her painful back, Lyarra Stark had a grandson to worry about. All of her children, Lyanna included, had thus taken a step back, thrown a rung lower upon the ranking of the woman’s concerns. Not that she saw the need; Bennard was a perfectly sweet boy with a mother of his own. But nay; the lady of the keep had to be up with the babe at all hours, insisting that he be spoiled and pampered. She had even commissioned a crib from the South for the mite; as though Southron wood might make for easier rest. As though the crib used by all of her children was suddenly not good enough. A waste of good coin, as far as Lyanna could tell, for even with the crib, the child saw more of his grandmother’s arms than the soft down-covered wood.

Then again the notion of having her mother’s arms about her at that particular moment was so wonderful she had to suppress a pang at the knowledge that she had a long way to go until she reached the desired outcome. More to the point, however, the skies above her had begun releasing their burden in tiny droplets mixed with sharper shards. Sleet, naturally it would come to that. Lyanna sighed deep in her chest and attempted to lean forth. Her back protested its discontentment with her bravery and she had to give in, with an astounding lack of grace, while accepting she depended on the wit of her brothers for salvation.

A shudder ran down her spine and fresh tears sprang to her eyes. She might as well lie back upon the ground, close her eyes and hope death claimed her before the wild beasts of the forest did. As to whether the gods would take enough pity on her to give her the wish, she hadn’t the faintest. The days were yet tinged with a pale ghost of warmth from the swiftly departing summer; in turn that brought to the forefront that feeding was not yet an issue for the creatures lurking about. There was deer and hares and fowl and fish. Truly, she would barely hold any temptation for a wolf then, would she? If only she knew for certain. Such as her comfort was, though, Lyanna had to admit she would have felt a lot better were Brandon home.

Ned was clever enough, she expected, and had a sense of duty far exceeding their elder brother’s, but he was tediously slow to make decisions and ever reluctant to take unnecessary risks. With the storm brewing above, which would undoubtedly grow into a fierce monster all of its own only too soon, would he set out from the keep? She was not a great distance away. Might be she would manage to crawl her way back. That at least would keep her moving. It had to be better than simply sitting there and freezing to that. The pain was not like to subside no matter how much she rested and if she managed to produce even short bursts of energy, she would at least be on her way to Winterfell and feel a lot better.

The second time around standing up proved a tad easier. Her lower extremities were still stiff and heavy, but her spine did not threaten to fold onto itself, nor did she fall immediately to her knees under the assault one her first step forth. She stumbled slightly and nearly fell over, that much she would admit, but caught herself just in time. A great deal rested on her returning home in one piece. There was still mending to do, and a small babe to watch and preparations for the coming winter to be made. In fact, Lyanna had distinctly heard her lady mother speaking of buying more cloth. Bennard, and all babes, the lady of the keep had assured her, grew like weeds. One moment was enough for unimaginable changes to take hold of the mite. While Lyanna doubted very much one week would see her nephew outgrowing each and every single one of his kyrtles, she had simply nodded her head, silently promising herself she would buy a few bolts of sturdy cloth for her own mending since Lyarra was so taken up with the child and her good-daughter. And quite frankly, she wondered if her mother would be half as involved when she had a child.

“Becoming a bit bitter, are we not?” she mused out loud, knowing well the answer to her own query. It was not as though she could help having taken Catelyn Tully into dislike. The woman knew only to complain and make demands. It was not enough the Starks had opened their home to her, she wanted a sept. It was not enough that Brandon had been knighted, he had to look the part. Albeit that last one produced such great mummery fodder, that Lyanna forgave her good-sister instantly. Watching her brother go about cursing the need to shave every other day was utter hilarity. It made Lyanna curious about Southron knights. Did the lot of them truly shave every other day and have a care of their clothes. Did they even brush down their horses or was the scent too offensive for their delicate noses. A small chuckle slipped past her lips, the mirth hurting her as she shook to suppress it. She could only hope Catelyn’s kin made for Winterfell at some point or another. Her curiosity would remain unsatisfied otherwise.

Such was the fate of daughters. If sons could move about that much easier, and she understood why, daughters certainly might not, and she understood that as well. Brave Danny Flint had not been sung in her father’s halls without reason. Neither was she a trusting soul incapable of reading a history or several, come to that. For whatever reason were at the mercy of men in that realm. And other men, kinder, more loving men, had stepped in and offered protection. That was all as it should be; she would not wish to go about with no such kin.

Before she might ponder such matters any further, however, a rumble came from above. Lyanna gathered her courage and glanced at the blanket of flinty clouds. The inconvenient weather was about to become disastrous. And she was caught in its grasp as sure as any hare in some hunter’s cunning snare. A groan passed her lips and she hobbled further along, wincing as her foot slipped on a small patch of ice and she had to lean away gently to songs of great distress from her beleaguered spine. If the gods were kind, they would keep from too many of those. She did not relish ending up sprawled on her back into what was sure to become either sludge or deep snow.

Only the gods were not exceedingly kind creatures, nor even a tad so, it would seem. All it took was one misplaced log for her foot to catch. She did not tumble on her back, but onto her front, face landing painfully against hard earth. The wounded cheek, planted firmly against dirt, began to bleed once again. To such foul fortune, she could not help but laugh wretchedly. The pain in her ankle told her without delay that her attempts at gaining any ground would have to be relinquished. It hurt damnably so.

With great difficulty and relenting willpower, she negotiated herself into a better position, sitting upon the log. Lyanna unfastened the laces of her boot and dragged it off her foot, biting deep into her lip to keep any sound from escaping as the edges bit into her flesh. Gentler still, she rolled down her short woollen stocking and gazed upon the bruised skin above the protruding bone. The angry red coloured screamed at her, jostling for attention with the more immediate predicament. She could not keep her flesh uncovered, nor would she hope to pack snow around the slightly swollen spot. It would only melt and flood her stocking, settling at the sole of her foot, causing an incredible amount of annoyance. Wet stockings ought to be quite a paltry source of ire, but for some reason their mere mention was enough to spoil her mood. There was something about wet cloth against one’s feet, something utterly disturbing. With that in mind, Lyanna reached for the hoar beneath her and scooped up a careful handful. She rubbed her hands together until they became cool and then clamped them softly around her ankle. Relieved by the cold, her fresh grew numb. The reprieve was short-lived though.

Unless she wished to come out of her adventure a few fingers short, she had to draw up her stocking, grit her teeth and pull her boot back on. She did it. Although the gritting of teeth came only after she’d begun to don her boot. Without pressing her heel down for a better fit, she tied the laces as loosely as possible. The last thing she needed was anyone taking a knife to her footwear. They were exceedingly dear boots; a gift from her father.

If she could find a sturdy stick, she might use it for her crutch. It would not be the safest plan she had ever committed to, but at such a junction what did one more risk matter. The tress about her all had wide, heavily-laden branches. She had no hope of obtaining one of those, not without some manner of implement she very clearly lacked. Upon the ground there were some twigs which proved equally useless. What she wouldn’t give for some bout of good-fortune just about then. Lips curling into an expression of distaste, she considered her earlier plan of crawling about in the muck. It was then that her sight chanced upon something resting against the trunk of a tree.

Of all things to have found, a walking stick had never entered her mind. What was a walking stick doing in the middle of the forest? It could be some manner of trap, her mind supplied. Or some sort of marking. Might be some poor soul had bee passing though and was set upon by wolves. Nay, that did not make sense. Wolves cared naught for walking sticks, they would not have placed it against a tree. Robbers then?

Taking the bit between her teeth, as it were, she lowered herself onto hands and knees, dragging her weight closer and closer to the object and the surrounding shrubbery. Once close enough, she reached for the stick and examined it carefully. The handle was silver, that she could tell. It bore a strange shape, some manner of winged creature, she thought, but coiled within itself. Pursing her lips, Lyanna realised the a row of scales of small black jets adorned the beast’s back. It was a fine object of little enough practical purpose, for she saw the top bad broken off. Might be the owner had flung it away.

But in the middle of the wooded area. Why would anyone do that? Even if part of it had fallen away, it could still be used. Even if only as means of beating back assailants. It was no blade, yet it was better than no weapon at all. She would not be equally foolish, Lyanna decided. The shortness of it would aid her into walking well enough and she meant to be on her way.

Using the staff for leverage, she pushed to her feet, or one foot rather. A scream left her lips as soon as her sight cast itself over the dense line of shrubbery. Unsteady though she might be, not for a moment did she think she might ignore the lone body lying facedown upon the ground. She manoeuvred her way between small bushes, hoping her skirts would not catch too badly in the brambles. But the stained and crumpled as her garment was, it was surely beyond saving. She somehow managed to find herself at the man’s side, sliding to her knees with little enough protest. Grabbing hold of his shoulder, she shook him, seeing no sight of blood about him. All the same, he moved not with her best of efforts.

Not particularly great in size, the man boasted dark garb from which a fine mail netting of careful craftsmanship could be seen peeking out. With a loud huff, she tensed her shoulders in preparation of heaving, then did her best to move the man onto his back. His face, gaunt and sallow, indicated naught amiss either beyond a crooked nose which suggested a recent break of the bone.

Bringing two fingers beneath his nostrils, she attempted to find his breath. Unfortunately, either the chill had settled into her bones and robbed her of feeling, or he breathed not at all. Whatever the case, her efforts were in vain. Might be if she pressed her ear to his chest. That ought to work. Or nay; he seemed to wear a fair amount. Her indecision lingered even as she pressed her hand to the middle of the stranger’s chest. Dipping her head down, she turned her face until her eyes met a stubble-covered chin. Small white hairs shadowed the skin beneath. Poor old man, she thought, her ear meeting soft cool cloth.

There was naught to hear, as predicated. Uncomfortable with the notion that she was leaning onto a dead man’s corpse, Lyanna drew back. Brandon had said flesh smelled foul when the rot set in. According to her brother the process was rather fast paced as well. She smelled naught of that nature on the man, however. If only there were some way of figuring out his current state. Alas, before she might figure out any such clever thing, the hum of hooves hitting the ground in brisk gallop broke the chain of her musings and then the calls of her name brought the bloom of hope in her chest to flower. 

“Here, I am here,” she cried out as loud as she could before a lump of emotion settled deep in her throat. She coughed and tapped her chest in a futile attempt to regain her voice. “I am here.” The words were a mere whimper, lost in the howling of the wind. But she was not about to let herself be lost so easily. Once more she called out, her voice equally soft. And then she tried again.

Her brother’s charger came to an abrupt halt, dancing on his long, fine legs. “Lyanna?” Ned fought the beast, tugging on the reins with might. For a moment, he was preoccupied with that, but just as soon, he dismounted, whittling down the distance between them as his hands worked on the fastening of his cloak. “What in the name of the gods do you think you are doing?” he demanded as the thick warm garment dropped about her shoulders. “Were you set upon?” Doubtlessly, he referred to the man. Before she might explain, however, he had her on her feet and she, quite forgetting about her injured ankle, let out a shrill cry as soon as the foot attached to it met the ground. Ned drew back slightly. “Why did you not say you were injured?”

“You didn’t precisely give any time,” she pointed out as Ned hoisted her up, calling over his shoulder just as Errol and Gram slid off their saddles. Her words earned her a sharp glare. “What would you have me say?”

“We have been looking for you for hours.” He did not yell the words. Ned spoke with implacable calm. It shook her more than any of Brandon’s shouting might have. “Hours,” he repeated for good measure. “You are not supposed to ride alone; you know that.” 

She had the good grace to look away in shame. “I know. But I am fine.” She moved her injured leg and winced. “Mostly.” Her back felt unnaturally warm though. She doubted it was Ned’s cloak. But she did not dare speak the words. “And I found that one over there. He needs more help than I do.”Errol and Gram, who’d been diligently checking upon the prone misfortunate soul, pronounced him among the living.

“Get him in the cart and wait for us,” Ned said. That did not sound good. Lyanna knew better than to make a sound in such circumstances. Sucking in a breath, she clenched her teeth against the desire to speak, to might be explain herself and mount a piddling defence. Yet her brother carried her to the log as the men left with what would be their guest for a time. He set her down and knelt before her. “Have you any notion how worried everyone has been?” Had he yelled at her, called her a selfish child, she’d not have been as affected. “Mother is beside herself with worry.”

“I did say I was going out for a ride.” She’d let quite a number of people know. Granted, they were men-at-arms who had no power to stop her, or demand she bring anyone else along, but she’d not disappeared off into the night with nary a word. “It is not as though I’ve not done so before.”

“In summer, when the days are long and the chance of a snowstorm is slim; is it not enough that we’ve found neither hide nor hair of Brandon and father? Must you worry us as well? Lyanna, you aren’t a child. What happened?”

She hesitated, gaze meeting Ned’s. “I was thrown. I recall falling and then nothing. When I finally came to, Fleet was gone and I was alone.” Her brother cursed. She flinched. “I tried to make my way back, but I fell and hurt my ankle.”

“You would, wouldn’t you?” A gusty sigh left him. “When I saw that horse return riderless,” Ned trailed off. “For now, I will tell you this, you are to ride in the cart. Once home, master Walys shall tend to you and that man. After I shall see your for your punishment.”

“Punishment?” she squeaked out.

“Punishment,” Ned confirmed, nodding grimly. “You knew the rules, yet you still went against them. That warrants some sanction, I daresay. You shan’t wiggle your way out of this one.” Warily, she inclined her head in acceptance. It seemed enough for Ned, as he lifted her in his arms once more, whistling low for the horse to follow.

The cart, filled with sweet-smelling straw and thick blankets, received her weight in addition to that of the nameless wretch. Lyanna sat herself against one of the edges, grunting at the twinges that brought. They set forth for Winterfell, their journey not particularly long. Ned spoke not a word more to her and his men seemed content to ride behind the car, exchanging quiet lines. She knew not what they spoke of either, for they did not enlighten her.

But at least, she told herself, she was alive and whole. And that had to count for something, did it not? Sniffling gently she, peered towards the looming keep. She would doubtlessly be given a warn meal and that would work to warm her bones. Some broth, or stew, if mother felt particularly charitable. There was always hope to be had. 

Lyarra Stark, much like her son had indicated, was fretting herself into a fine frenzy as they arrived into the great courtyard. Barely had the cart even rolled to a stop that she rushed forth with cries of, “My poor girl! My sweet dearling!”, which was such a departure from her usual composure that Lyanna feared for one brief moment she was caught in some fever dream. But the lady of the keep appraised her appearance with shrewd eyed even as her hands reached out to tug Lyanna into an awkward embrace. “Well, what are you waiting for, Ned? Get her down. Take her to the bathing chamber.”

Dutiful Eddard committed himself to the task as mother saw to their unconscious guest. Embarrassing as it was to be carried to such a place by her brother, Lyanna soothed herself with the knowledge that he would deposit her upon a bench and run off with as much speed as she wished. Might be even more so. And he did just so, once he’d placed her upon the wooden surface, leaving her to the tender mercies of Briar and Saffron.

“Look at you, my lady,” the elder of the two spoke, the ruddy glow in her cheeks somewhat dimmed in a flushed face. “Your lady mother was fit to be tied, she was, when you ran off like that.” But in spite of her words, her hands were gentle enough. And Lyanna soon found herself in her shift, lacking boots and stockings and being thoroughly examined. “That is a right swell there.” Saffron felt around her ankle, thankfully not grabbing hold. “Sweetbriar will give you some milk of the poppy.”

She accepted the offer gratefully, noting with quite a large amount of pleasure that her draught came in the form of piping hot tea. She sipped at it slowly, not even mining that it scalded her tongue. It was warm and slightly bitter. But all the best remedies were. She had managed to down about a quarter when her mother finally found her way into the chamber.

“You are in big trouble, young lady.” The words, spoken with no preamble, gave way to the beginnings of a lecture. “Have you any idea what your little adventure did to my nerves? I thought my heart would stop, I would, when I heard your horse returned alone. Alone! Never mind that you were not supposed to leave the keep to begin with.” Scowling down at her, the woman took the time to catalogue the state she presented herself in. “My gods, Saffron, help her with that shift.”

Left in only her smallclothes, Lyanna pursed her lips as the dawning horror on her mother’s face. She looked down as well, stomach squeezing tightly. She’d not thought she would have managed to collect sp many bruises in two sort falls. But from what she could see, admittedly little enough, her body bore spots and patches, rather like a leopard. Instinctively, she raised a hand to her face, half-dreading the question springing to her lips might find answer. “My face?” But that could not be. Had she been bruised there, certainly her mother would have said something.

“Bother your face, you little fool. Look at the rest of you; lost your seat, indeed. Briar, help her to her feet.” More sharp cries followed that, as the three women moved her together into the tub. Ordinarily, she would have climbed the steps herself, but as it was, any such attempt would result in a swift drowning. Following that victory, she was washed and laved and cleansed as never in her life. They checked her for cuts, wounds on her head and other manner of injuries. All the while, her mother continued the lecturing.

In the end, even her mother had to be satisfied with the thorough examination as she was dressed in a fresh shift of plain broadcloth and helped out into the hallway where to her surprise Ned stood. Her brother gave her a long look, a question lingering in his gaze. But as she had no capacity to read other people’s minds, especially not those of men who were an entirely different species. At least with other women she might have a good guess as to what might be going on in their heads.

“I can climb the stairs on my own, “ she offered, in spite of the fact she feared she’d simply fall down several flights and break some bones to go along with her less life-threatening injuries. Not that Ned seemed convinced.

“I am certain you can, if you set your mind to it. But we are not going to make that attempt.” Picking her up, Ned went on. “You and I have yet to conclude our conversation if I recall. Why did that not sound thrilling?

“Can we not speak on the morrow? Mother has already given me a stern-talking to, I assure you.” For the first time in what felt like a million years, Ned grinned, something of their childhood caught in that upturn. “If you would talk, speak to me about the man I found. Has the master been to see him?”

“So he has. As to his state, I can tell you very little other than the master believes he had an inflammation of the lungs and will remain abed for a time. He has not even woken up once.” She supposed hoping otherwise was asking for too much. But then it could well be that she had reached him just in time. “For all that, it seems to be that he will live.”

“Well, I hope he does. Surely he had family worrying over his fate.” A man his age certainly had fully grown children. Giving her brother a hopeful look, she ventured forth a question. “Am I to understand we shall speak more on the morrow?”

“You win this one.” She certainly did. Lyanna reined in her relief. With any luck, a night’s sleep would set all to rights. Might be not her bruises, but certainly any notion relating to a punishment, deserved or not. 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm bored. And I had another dumb idea....
> 
> Whatever.


End file.
